Jul 19 The Making of Milestones

Somehow our conversation steered into the dangerously-open territory of life stories, wherein our driver shared with us that her husband of 21 years had just left her.

"Your 40s are the roughest," she explained.

"Our 20s don't seem much better," I responded. "What about your 30s?"

"You'll spend most of it sacrificing everything for your kids and husband who will later get bored of you and leave. It'll be somewhat happy."

So this is life, then?

Somewhat happy. Only somewhat.

Oh.

And so I cried, naturally.

Because for a moment, I believed her. Because that's what a combination of sadness and a cocktail does - it makes you believe bleak half-truths from your Uber driver.

***

I have a full-time job now. One with health benefits and paid holidays and a 401(k).

In fact it's a job that I really wanted with a company that I already felt at home in. I am happy with my job and happy with my decision to accept it and stay in Nashville.

But I struggle with a sense of what now?!

The job search is over. A new apartment lease has been signed. A routine has formed: Up at 6 am. Take my Poodle outside. Cook eggs for breakfast and mourn over the fact I can't eat Poptarts anymore. Put the coffee on. Get ready. Read and write with coffee - and lots of creamer - in hand. Go to work. Come home. Eat dinner. Attempt to maintain a social life for a couple hours. Do it all over again the next day.

Is this all there is to life?

Endless days of the same?

The same. The same. The same.

It's this sameness that scares me the most: the low-hanging threat that my days could blend together into one puddle of indistinguishable same.

When growing up, the start of each school year and each break marked a time of clear change, of fresh beginning and of seemingly-abundant possibility (or at least that's what we told ourselves).

Year after year, the milestones came.

Where are the milestones now?

I presented this question to my mom one evening as we drifted slowly on a swing, wine in hand and the green Tennessee hills set before us.

"You get married. You have kids."

But... But... But... That's it? And what if those things never even happen?

I'm trying not to feel suffocated by this comfortable, routine life I've recently settle into. Thing is, I long for comfort, for stability... but the moment I receive it, I feel trapped.

Is this how I'm always going to feel? Always wishing to steal away to some form of new adventure the second something becomes routine?

In the Mumford and Sons song "Wilder Mind" (bless you if you aren't a HATER and actually appreciate the new album like I do), Marcus sings, "I had been blessed with a wilder mind."

I love that line. The simplicity of it. How in eight basic words it describes that restlessness within me.

But I've begun to wonder: is it truly a blessing? This wild, wandering mind that can never be still? Always chasing that elusive something that expresses itself as an inexplicable "I don't know"?

I was discussing this with a friend the other night—a friend who very often spills nuggets of wisdom without even realizing it.

"You have to make your own milestones," she told me matter-of-factly.

I think she's onto something.

Those milestones worthy of a notch on your life's timeline will come. Until then, we must celebrate—revel in—the little milestones:

Sipping a warm mocha at my favorite coffee shop while discussing books with a friend.

Completing a piece of writing that even I can't help but beam a bit over.

Laughing way too hard with friends over the creation of absolutely absurd Snapchat stories.

An evening spent re-reading (and re-weeping) through The Great Gatsby with lit candles and a glass of wine.

Savoring a first-listen to an album I've been anticipating for months.

Reading a line in a book for the first time that embodies so much "yes!" that it begs to be highlighted and copied down onto a notecard.

Spontaneously buying a ticket to see One Direction in Boston because why not?!

Since taking that first step, I’ve made the trip back to speak in numerous classes and even at other events. Yes, the introvert in me still needs plenty of time to recover after public speaking. But every time I went back to campus, it got easier. With every step—every time I said “yes” when I wanted to say “no”—I gained momentum.

That’s another great thing about baby steps: every step you take builds momentum—stamina to keep going, strength for the journey.

In all seriousness, though, I felt like I had transported right back to where I was my senior year, caught in the in-between of trying to hold on so tightly to those last few months of my life as a student, and looking so forward to venturing out of it. But it brought back that old familiar, restless feeling—the same feeling I had when I got back from London, and when I first moved here—of wanting so many things and trying to figure out a way to make them all coexist.

Between stressing for Walter White’s father-of-the-year-campaign and my ambiguous job future, the happy hours continued. I have the utmost appreciation for these friends that took me out of my own darkness and enjoyed a beer or two. We treasured our three dollar drinks, our pita and chips, our half off cocktails, our half off wines, our chances to escape the pressures of “do you have a job yet?” and the looming student loan emails. The bitter hops of a summer ale washed away our problems, reminding us that if Emily Blunt and John Krasinksi found each other, we too can find jobs and futures that welcome us wholeheartedly.

Last winter, as I hid under a blanket and bemoaned the graveyard that is modern dating in the city of Nashville, Tennessee (where every boy is contractually obligated to include in his I-don’t-actually-want-a-relationship script: “But I think you’re really cool!”), I told Chelsey that we should just stop having expectations altogether. Because rarely are expectations met, so why bother having them in the first place? I figured I could protect myself from any future disappointment by kicking expectations out completely. Expect nothing, I argued to her.

Removed from the college bubble and re-planted in a new life, the field is wiped clean again. I have to again make a real, conscious decision about where I fit in and how I stack up. There seem to be metrics in place for who’s “winning” post-grad—high-power job? committed relationship? best apartment? coolest city?—but there’s no prize. New York is enormous, and social media is a daily tidal wave, and there have been days when I feel so small.

I recently went through a breakup. I felt like I was on a train going through a tunnel. I couldn’t see clearly. I couldn’t think clearly. There were no mountains or trees, just a steady presence of hurt and confusion.

Our deserts will look different—a job loss that flattens you, credit card debt that seems endless, a family drama that has yet to resolve, a breakup that breaks you, an addiction that controls you, a depression or an anxiety that plagues you. Deserts can look so much like a place of despair.

Ally is a 2014 graduate of Belmont University in Nashville, the city she still calls home. She owns a cat named after C.S. Lewis and buys way too many concert and plane tickets and then writes about it. She believes London is the most magical city in all the world and will defend this position somewhat aggressively. She's a freelance writer for small businesses looking to build trust with potential clients through blog posts and web copy. Check out her music, travel and life musings on her blog, Maps & Mochas.

Ally is a 2014 graduate of Belmont University in Nashville, the city she still calls home. She owns a cat named after C.S. Lewis and buys way too many concert and plane tickets and then writes about it. She believes London is the most magical city in all the world and will defend this position somewhat aggressively. She's a freelance writer for small businesses looking to build trust with potential clients through blog posts and web copy. Check out her music, travel and life musings on her blog, Maps & Mochas.

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